A Hit, A Very Palpable Hit.

It Is The Mind That Makes The Body Rich; And As The Sun Breaks Through The Darkest Clouds, So Honor Peereth In The Meanest Habit.

Piece Out Our Imperfections With Your Thoughts.

These Are The Forgeries Of Jealousy; And Never, Since The Middle Summer's Spring, Met We On Hill, In Dale, Forest, Or Mead, By Paved Fountain Or By Rushy Brook, Or In The Beached Margent Of The Sea, To Dance Our Ringlets To The Whistling Wind, But With Thy Brawls Thou Hast Disturbed Our Sport.

The Undeserver May Sleep When The Man Of Action Is Called On.

God's Will! My Liege, Would You And I Alone, Without More Help, Could Fight This Royal Battle!